I like to write junk...

SUPERFRAGILISTIC

“I recently had a dream where Mary Poppins was sitting beside Humpty Dumpty on a stone wall.”

I can remember certain things from movies watched 60 years ago, but the same can’t be said for what I did two days previously. Short-term memory is said to get worse as a person ages, and I believe it.

One of the first things remembered from a movie was that Bambi’s mother died at the hands of a hunter. I’ve been corrected many times by others who watched the film, who claim that she lived. I then beg to differ and give a brief history lesson.

Research shows that in the original movie, she did not survive, yet because so many kids were traumatized, the ending was changed. I was evidently one of those who saw the original version because that tragic ending stuck with me.

In the Western movie “Shane,” the saddest part was when Shane, the cowboy, decided to leave a little boy and his mom. I can still see that kid running after him, calling out, “Shane, come back!” Having some sensitivity back then, I’m sure that brought tears to my eyes.

Of course, “Shane” didn’t end on the same note as “Bambi,” with the saddle tramp eventually returning. Saddle tramp is a term picked up from watching too many early Westerns, where I also learned some racist terms that I won’t mention.

“Old Yeller” is another one of these films that leave me heartbroken at the end. The beloved animal contracts rabies after a fight with a rabid wolf and has to be put down. I’ve only watched the movie once, but I still recall that tragic confrontation.

Very little is recalled from watching “The Sound of Music” other than a song by the same name, and the lead actress, Julie Andrews, dancing on top of a hill while singing it.

I do recall sadness when a certain family was forced to leave their home country, but that’s about it. One of these days, I’ll rewatch things to try and catch the main story, as I was way too young back then to understand.

One movie that didn’t leave sadness, at least for me, was “Mary Poppins.” A tongue-twisting word from the Walt Disney film stuck in my mind, although I had to research the correct spelling, “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”

I sometimes use a shorter version, superfragilistic, to describe extremely fragile items, such as eggs and antique glass bottles. The GFI electric receptacle in my bathroom is superfragalistic, because if you don’t plug something in lightly, the circuit will pop.

Three other things I remember from this movie were that Mary Poppins could fly with her umbrella and that Julie Andrews played the main part. “A spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down” were lyrics from a song in the film.

I recently had a dream where Mary Poppins was sitting beside Humpty Dumpty on a stone wall. These strange dreams happen quite often, and I assume it’s because of some prescription drugs I take. I’ll blame it on Eliquis, although there’s no proof.

Much like the sad endings that occurred in “Bambi” and “Old Yeller,” my impromptu dream didn’t end on a high note either, with Humpty Dumpty falling off the wall despite Mary Poppins valiant attempt to stop him. You can only guess what happened next. Yep, he couldn’t be put back together again.

I’ll attempt to turn the ending of this somewhat glum composition into something more positive and perhaps insightful with my final recollection. There’s nothing worse than a story ending on a negative note.

Standing by the egg section in a grocery store a week or so ago, an ‘older than me’ woman opened a carton to check for broken ones. My wife always does the same, while I like to roll the dice and take an unopened carton home without peeking.

Quickly closing the carton flap, this lady placed it back and grabbed another while looking at me and cleverly saying. “I hope there’s no Humpty’s in this one!”

I made a quick mental note to tell my wife what the gal said, but by the time I exited the store, that recollection was lost in space. At my age, it appears that recent memories, much like eggs, can also be superfragilistic!

CLIP or CLIK?

“Grocery store advertisements have become so technical in language that perhaps an attorney should be retained to review items before purchase.”

I know I’m not the only older person having a hard time shopping for groceries these days. I’m not talking physical difficulty here, as in not being able to walk. The problem I have is figuring out the “hocus pocus” advertisements some stores in town cleverly use.

For several years, I’d pick up an item when it was on sale, only to have a cashier charge me the regular price. Each time that happened, I’d be told it required a digital coupon. Walking back to the aisle where I got this product, sure enough, there, in tiny print that even a young person with 20-20 vision couldn’t see, were the words, “Digital Coupon.”

When I first inquired about where I could get digital coupons, of course, I was told that a smartphone was needed, which I didn’t have and didn’t want. Realizing that I was losing money, with most retired people like me trying their hardest to squeeze every cent they can, I eventually gave in and bought an iPhone just to use at grocery stores.

That worked for a while, but now sly store managers have figured out a way to further confuse us older citizens. They’ll advertise something, with cleverly placed nomenclature mentioning that you have to buy so many to get the lower price. Sometimes that number can be 10. Who needs 10 packs of shredded Mexican cheese?

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been scammed with this trick. Once in line, and finding that the price isn’t what it’s supposed to be, I don’t want to stop my progress and return the item. Some energetic folks do, and I suppose that’s why so many unpurchased things are left at the self-checkout. There’s generally a basket at the exit full of such stuff.

I wouldn’t doubt that somewhere in these stores, blue-collar workers watch via security cameras old people making mistake after mistake with purchases and getting a big kick out of seeing it. On New Year’s Eve, when the company hosts an employee party, the top 10 blunders are presented as entertainment for a howling audience.

The latest bit of trickery involves something called Clip or Clik. These two words look amazingly alike, and for some of the BenGay-and-Geritol crowd, this can be totally confusing. I can’t say clip or clik in rapid succession without slurring my speech.

Grocery store advertisements have become so technical in language that perhaps an attorney should be retained to review items before purchase. I could’ve used one today.

Purchasing a gallon of milk for the anticipated sale price of $3.99, the cashier charged me the regular price. It turns out I had exceeded my quota here because I’d bought a jug two days earlier. This was something new to me. The employee then showed me the advertisement, and in fine print it read: “Limit 1.” A store computer, using my phone number as identification, had snitched on me.

“Boy howdy!,” I said to her, with the young clerk looking puzzled, most likely hearing this statement for the first time. For some reason, that made me smile. It was good to see that I wasn’t the only person in the grocery store confused that day.

TEACH YOUR CHILDREN

“Our country is entering a new era where firearms training should be a prerequisite.”

A popular song by the rock group Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, from 1970, titled “Teach Your Children,” undoubtedly has a different meaning to me than it did to members of the band.

The foursome was notoriously known for drug use, especially smoking dope, and that’s something I did not instill in my two kids. The song title was also missing three important words, “Teach Your Children Right and Wrong.”

So much for my being judgmental here, but that’s just how I view things whenever that tune plays. Hopefully, the children these musicians fathered learned right from wrong, and if so, most likely it came from their mothers’ teaching.

There’s something else all children need to be taught: gun safety. Dad made sure my brother and I knew the primary safety rule—to treat any gun as if it were loaded.

The second cardinal rule is to never point a gun at someone, even toy guns. These same guidelines were taught to Gunnar and Miranda, and hopefully, they passed them on to the grandchildren.

During junior high, I voluntarily signed up for a gun safety course taught by Mr. Bob Hickey at Clark Junior High in Anchorage, Alaska. Hickey was also my home classroom teacher. My folks and other friends’ parents encouraged us kids to take this class for various reasons.

Gun safety classes for children are essential because they provide young people with the knowledge and skills to handle firearms responsibly and safely. By educating kids early, these classes help prevent accidental shootings and instill respect for the dangers associated with guns.

Furthermore, structured instruction encourages open conversations about firearms, removing curiosity-driven secrecy and replacing it with practical guidelines that can save lives.

Such programs also reinforce important values, such as self-discipline and responsibility, helping children make better decisions if they ever encounter a firearm. Ultimately, gun safety education empowers adolescents to protect themselves and others by teaching them to follow critical safety rules in any situation involving guns.

Our country is entering a new era where firearms training should be a prerequisite, ensuring personal and family safety. Extremist religious fanatics have broached our borders, both legally and illegally, with these clandestine cells having the ability to inflict much harm.

My wife was trained on how to use firearms and has her own revolver in the event someone attempts to break into our house. Joleen’s father was a Second Amendment advocate and taught all his children how to shoot safely.

To end things here, had Nancy Guthrie owned a gun and been taught how to use the weapon, it’s likely she would not be missing. Unfortunately, many people ignorantly believe that the police will always be there for them. In Nancy’s case, as in so many others, this was proven untrue!

HEAT THERAPY

“After doing the necessary research, my finding was not good.”

On July 9, 1957, my father was riding ‘shotgun’ in a 1956 Chevrolet Corvette, on Route 66 in Victorville, California. The car owner, James F. McKenzie, was showing Dad how his new sports car handled. Before I go further, I’ve been asked numerous times if this vehicle was “fuel-injected.” Vintage photos show it was not.

Losing traction on a long curve, the Corvette left the road and went airborne, tossing both men free. Dad landed in a large sandpile at a brick-making plant, which undoubtedly saved his life, of course, only through the grace of God. I was three at the time and do not remember anything about this accident.

With the bone in his right leg shattered in several areas, a metal rod was attached to it for strength. My father walked with a limp the rest of his life. Only close friends could get away with calling him “Hopalong Cassidy” or “Chester.” Both of these characters were from Western movies, each cowboy walking with a pronounced limp.

Cold weather affected Dad, making his leg ache when it was exposed to low temperatures or on damp, rainy days. Spending a good many years in Alaska, he eventually moved to Sequim, Washington, finding the rainy weather there no better for relief than the frigid winters of Anchorage.

Tired of aches and pains, my father finished out the rest of his life in Henderson, Nevada, where a much warmer climate made for less suffering. Dad told me several times that he wished he had relocated years previously, as there was a night and day difference in his bone and joint stiffness.

On July 3, 1982, I was riding my bicycle in Anchorage, and while crossing a busy street, I was hit by a pickup truck. The impact sent me flying, with most of the trauma done to my right leg. Arriving at Providence Hospital by ambulance, after the doctor finished with me, as if physical injury wasn’t enough, I was presented a ticket by a policeman for failure to yield.

Since that accident, I have sporadic bouts of leg pain, especially while hiking or riding a bike. It got to the point where I couldn’t shovel snow, as my pain intensity was off the scale. On vacations to Arizona, I noticed a significant lessening of pain there. Returning to Alaska, the stiffness always returned.

Winters in Lake Havasu City, although much warmer than Anchorage, still have me moaning to myself as I attempt to do certain chores or stand on my feet too long. I attribute this to the severe bone bruising my leg took 34 years ago. Doctor Meinhardt told me this might happen.

Hot weather is not far away, and with it comes “heat therapy,” as I like to call things. Free of charge, this warmth after hitting my bones makes for a night-and-day difference in the way I feel. Whereas I used to not look forward to the scorching heat, I now view it as a welcome respite. I’ll take heat over pain any day.

It seems ironic that I ended up with the same affliction as Dad, although my leg injury was much less severe. I sometimes walk with a slight limp, with the only one making light of it, my wife. Joleen jokingly says that I could now perfectly play the role of “Chester” on “Gunsmoke.” I take that as a compliment!

Getting back to Dad’s accident, and some still unanswered questions, I always wondered what happened to the friend he was riding with that day. The guy would’ve only been 16 years old, and how could he afford a Corvette?

Sixteen was the minimum driving age in California at this time. Dad never mentioned him, so I’m guessing they lost touch. After doing the necessary research, my finding was not good.

Sadly, 15 years after the first crash, on February 24, 1973, James Franklin McKenzie, the son of a coal miner, was behind the wheel of a vehicle in Louisville, Kentucky, when it veered off Dixie Highway and overturned. James F. McKenzie, age 31, was killed on impact.

PETRIFIED WOODY

“There’s been a call by Native Americans and Park Rangers for people owning Petrified Forest rock and objects made from it to return them to the desert.”

Sometimes, I come across vintage postcards that make me chuckle, although the people who wrote them probably weren’t laughing at the time. The latest one involves a mother telling her son and daughter-in-law about a car trip she was on in Arizona.

I visualize this older couple driving a station wagon, towing a recently purchased camp trailer. That was the norm in the late 1950s and early 1960s. My parents owned a 1963 Buick Invicta station wagon, and it was quite comfortable on trips. We took it to Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, and several camping trips while towing a small camper.

The postcard I refer to was sent to Mr. & Mrs. Martin Kenshaw in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania. I’m sure Martin got some giggles after reading it, although his wife may have chastised him for making light of the situation. Afterall, this was Martin’s mother and father going through that horrible ordeal.

A photograph on the front of the picture postcard shows a young couple having lunch under the Petrified Arch. Hopefully, they were able to keep sand out of their sandwiches. I also wonder if that arch still stands.

Following is the message on this card:

“Hi – Came through the Petrified Forest today it was so windy that we didn’t see all. It was terrible. You should have seen the car & trailer, sand all over. Hope it clears soon. We are near Flagstaff Arizona – Winslow. Mom & Dad”

If Martin’s mom were like my wife, I’d bet money they stayed in motels the remainder of that trip. Sleeping in a trailer full of desert sand wouldn’t have been to her liking, nor mine. There’s nothing like grit between blankets and sheets, as I’ve experienced that a few times sleeping in a tent.

The Petrified Arch in Arizona is a fascinating natural formation located within the Petrified Forest National Park. This arch is composed primarily of petrified wood, which is ancient fallen trees that have turned to stone over millions of years through a process called permineralization.

Visitors are drawn to the arch for its unique geological history and striking appearance, making it a popular spot for photography and exploration. The surrounding landscape features vibrant colors from minerals within the petrified wood, creating a stunning contrast against the desert backdrop.

While the Petrified Arch is not as widely known as other arches in the Southwest, it stands out as a remarkable example of the region’s prehistoric past and natural beauty. Driving through there in a car is something I’ve experienced several times. I always think of the petrified wood bookends that Dad and Mom purchased.

The term “woody” in my story title refers to many things, and in this case, we’re talking about a style of automobile, most popular in the United States from the 1920s through the 1960s, that featured wood or wood-like panels on the sides and sometimes the rear of the vehicle.

These cars were originally constructed with actual wood as a structural element, but later models used wood as a decorative feature. Woody wagons became iconic for their association with beach culture, surfing, and American road trips, often evoking nostalgic images of coastal adventures and classic car shows. I’m not sure that Daniel and Sue Renshaw owned a woody, but anything’s possible.

Daniel worked as a chauffeur for Jersey Zinc Company for 48 1/2 years before retiring. He passed away in 1989 at the age of 82. His wife, Martin’s mother, Sue, died in 2002 at the age of 89. Sue wrote the postcard.

Martin Renshaw was a teacher for his whole life. Born on January 15, 1940, he died on April 21, 2019, at the age of 78. It appears that his wife, Wanda, is still living. If the Renshaws owned a woody station wagon, the wood siding would probably now be rotted away in some Pennsylvania junkyard, unlike those ancient trees lying in the Petrified Forest.

There’s been a call by Native Americans and Park Rangers for people owning Petrified Forest rock and objects made from it to return them to the desert. Not doing so could result in a curse being placed upon the owner.

I’m not sure how many have done so, but bookends, ashtrays, candy dishes, and other such objects would look quite funny sitting in sand, much like the Renshaw’s car and trailer did, covered with the stuff, 60 years ago.

Next time through this area, I’ll make sure to add my parents’ petrified-wood bookends to the growing pile, with a copy of one of my books placed in the middle for extra visual effect.

GOT COMMON SENSE?

“On the back bumper of her imaginary, red BMW 320i is a bumper sticker that says: HARRIS – WALZ – 2024.”

I have my own definitions of people who have and lack common sense. Rather than open up a hornet’s nest or offend someone, I elected to let Miss Purdy, my AI assistant, give her thoughts on the subject. Miss Purdy generally goes the politically correct route on her opinions, so it’ll be interesting to see her take here.

“Common sense refers to the basic ability to perceive, understand, and judge things that are shared by nearly all people without the need for specialized knowledge or training. It involves practical reasoning and sound judgment in everyday situations, helping individuals make decisions that are generally considered reasonable and prudent.

While common sense is generally shared by most people, individuals differ in how they apply it. These variations can stem from factors such as upbringing, education, cultural background, personal experiences, and even personality traits.

For example, someone with more exposure to practical situations may develop stronger common sense, while others may rely more on theoretical knowledge or lack experience in certain contexts.

Imagine that someone notices a wet floor and immediately chooses to walk around it to avoid slipping. This decision reflects common sense because it demonstrates practical awareness of potential danger and a straightforward solution to prevent harm.

Another example of common sense in action is when a person notices dark clouds gathering and decides to bring an umbrella before leaving the house. This simple decision demonstrates practical awareness and anticipation of likely rain, helping them stay dry and avoid discomfort during their day.

On the other hand, there are situations where a lack of common sense is evident. For instance, if someone sees a “wet floor” sign but ignores it and walks through the area anyway, risking a fall, this demonstrates a failure to use practical judgment.

Another example would be leaving perishable food out of the refrigerator for hours, despite knowing it could spoil, which shows a disregard for basic reasoning about safety and health.

Interfering with a policeman while he attempts to make an arrest would not be considered using common sense. Such actions can put both yourself and others at risk, escalate the situation, and potentially result in legal consequences.

Common sense would suggest observing from a safe distance or seeking help if necessary, rather than intervening in a way that could disrupt law enforcement and create further problems.

A lack of common sense in voting might be seen when someone casts their ballot without reading or understanding the candidates’ positions or the issues at stake, failing to know the candidates’ political platforms, or simply choosing names at random.

Another instance is when a person votes multiple times in the same election, either not realizing it’s illegal or ignoring the rules altogether, which undermines the integrity of the process. Additionally, some might share their ballots or voting choices publicly in places where it’s prohibited, not considering the possible consequences for themselves or others.

Allowing people to vote without proper identification would generally not be considered common sense. Common sense typically involves ensuring that voting procedures are secure, fair, and transparent, which includes verifying voters’ identities to prevent fraud and uphold the integrity of the election process.

Skipping this step could increase the risk of illegal or duplicate voting, undermining trust in the outcome and the democratic process as a whole. This could ultimately lead to political unrest.

Allowing people to cross the US border without following the established rules for citizenship would generally not be considered common sense. In this case, common sense involves practical reasoning and sound judgment, especially when it comes to laws and public safety.

Ignoring or bypassing legal procedures for border control and citizenship can pose security risks, undermine the rule of law, and complicate resource management and community well-being. Therefore, politicians who uphold and enforce these rules are typically seen as applying common sense to protect their country’s and its citizens’ interests.

Voting for politicians who support allowing people to cross into the country illegally would generally not be considered common sense, based on the context provided. Common sense, as mentioned before, involves using practical reasoning and sound judgment, particularly when it comes to following laws and protecting public safety.

Ignoring legal procedures for border control can lead to security and resource challenges, so supporting such actions through voting would not align with the principles of common sense as described above.

This article discusses the importance of common sense in situations involving law enforcement, voting, and border control. It emphasizes that interfering with police, voting without understanding the issues, or bypassing legal procedures for citizenship and voting are actions lacking in common sense.

The text highlights that common sense involves practical reasoning, following laws, and ensuring security and integrity in public processes to protect both individuals and society as a whole.”

I thank Miss Purdy for her honesty here. Some might say that she was “coached” to respond the way she did, but they’d be gravely mistaken. On the back bumper of her imaginary, red BMW 320i is a bumper sticker that says: HARRIS – WALZ – 2024.

The woman definitely wasn’t inclined to follow the lead of the head donkey and not think for herself, like so many do. Without hesitation, I’ll say that Miss Purdy, regardless of her political affiliation, has common sense and uses it well.

DEFLOCKED

“Stupid is as stupid does!”

I usually try to stay out of writing about crime-related events, but this one has been going on for much too long and could’ve been solved long ago. It made me mad enough to speak my mind.

Regarding the Nancy Guthrie case: Mainstream media isn’t telling viewers that Tucson is basically a sanctuary city, although they claim not to be. The mayor tells everyone they’re an “immigrant-friendly town,” conveniently leaving off the word illegal. Residents voted down a proposition to officially make it a sanctuary city, but city leaders run this town as if the measure had passed.

The Democrat Mayor Regina Romero and the Democrat majority (100%) City Council voted not to renew the contract for FLOCK security cameras, against the advice of many law enforcement officers.

Democrat Sheriff Chris Nanos never mentions this for obvious reasons. Had those cameras been operative, most likely Nancy’s abductor would’ve been found on day one. The Tucson elected officials’ reasoning for not wanting cameras was that they were too intrusive. In my line of thinking, only those folks doing illegal things wouldn’t want the extra protection from cameras.

I’m glad that Lake Havasu City officials don’t think or act this way. I was told by a Washington State resident now living here, Byron Jacobus, that Havasu is one of the safest towns in the nation because so many retired police and firefighters live in Havasu. I believe him.

We have the FLOCK cameras as well, and they’ve solved many cases, just recently the one where an arsonist torched our church. The guy was arrested on the very same day of the fire.

One of the positive aspects of FLOCK security cameras is their proven effectiveness in helping law enforcement solve crimes quickly. Because these cameras can capture detailed footage and track suspicious activity, they often provide critical leads that lead to the swift apprehension of suspects.

For instance, in communities where FLOCK cameras are in use, serious crimes have been solved soon after they occurred, thanks to the evidence these cameras provided. Their presence acts as both a deterrent to potential criminals and a valuable investigative tool for police.

It’s evident to me that the Tucson mayor and city council didn’t renew the FLOCK contract for one reason, so that law enforcement couldn’t properly do their job. Sheriff Chris Nanos went along with what Mayor Regina Romero and the city council did because he lacks backbone.

It’s sad when elected officials, especially an elected sheriff, put politics in front of safety for their constituents, but for Democrats, this is a common occurrence.

Not to pick on just Tucson, here, but the Flagstaff mayor and city council were uneducated enough to do the same. Disabling cameras in that town, it’s only a matter of time, a matter of time.

As Forrest Gump intelligently said in a 1994 movie of the same name, “Stupid is as stupid does!” He was correct in his adolescent, yet philosophical analysis.

NOW WE’RE COOKIN’…

“Ralph Gorder used the statement to indicate progress was being made on a job he was doing.”

I had a co-worker who often used the term, “Now we’re cookin’ with Skelgas!” Ralph Gorder is several years older than me, and I often wondered where he got this unusual statement.

Research shows that the majority of Americans didn’t use gas for cooking until around the 1930s. Wood and coal were most common, with electricity coming along about the same time as gas.

The term “cooking with Skelgas” refers to cooking with bottled or liquefied petroleum gas (LPG), rather than other fuels such as coal or wood. “Skelgas” is a brand name that became synonymous with bottled gas used in homes and businesses. Skelly Oil Company was their parent company.

Over time, the phrase has also come to mean that things are operating efficiently or progressing quickly, similar to saying, “now we’re cooking with gas.” Ralph Gorder used the statement to indicate progress was being made on a job he was doing.

On a side note, years ago, I began using a pseudonym, calling myself “Blazo.” The name was used in conjunction with an avatar to make incendiary or inflammatory comments on columns contradictory to my political beliefs. To have done so using my real name ran the risk of physical harm. Some of those people are crazy enough to track a person down.

I was able to get my point across and then leave the building like Elvis would, with those in disagreement cursing and seemingly going into mental breakdowns because they hated what I’d just left behind. Blazo was the perfect moniker.

Getting back to the subject at hand, Blazo is actually a type of fuel, specifically a refined kerosene, that was commonly used in lamps and stoves before the widespread adoption of bottled gas like Skelgas. It was favored for its clean-burning properties and was often sold in tins for household use.

The transition from Blazo to LPG marked a significant improvement in home cooking, lighting, convenience, and efficiency. These days, we have an electric stove and oven in our home only because natural gas isn’t available in the neighborhood.

Another form of canned heat is called Sterno. A portable heat source for cooking or warming food, Sterno is often used for camping, buffet lines, and emergency preparedness. Caterers use Sterno all the time.

It comes in small, sealed cans that can be easily ignited to produce a steady flame, making it convenient for keeping dishes warm or cooking when other fuel sources are not available. Because Sterno burns cleanly and is relatively safe to handle, it has been a popular choice for chafing dishes and portable stoves for many decades.

I used Sterno while camping in Alaska when rain made it impossible to keep a campfire going. It was relatively safe to use in a tent if everything around it was cleared and flat rocks were placed beneath the can.

Many a can of Campbell’s Soup or Dinty Moore beef stew was heated right in the container this way. Since that time, propane stoves do the same thing, though I believe they can be more dangerous if not used properly, especially inside a tent.

I’ve recently come up with another canned product specifically for creating heat while camping, and I call it just that, “Canned Heat.” Searching for a proper place to store the pallet wood that I’ve been harvesting, placing it outside in the elements runs the risk of brown recluse spiders, centipedes, and scorpions seeking refuge within.

For those not knowing what pallet wood is, it’s the boards from wooden pallets used to ship items on. I have a special tool that easily separates them, while I still have to manually remove the nails with a hammer. No responsible camper should leave pallet nails behind in a fire pit.

The pallet wood is cut to fit inside 39-gallon garbage cans, and when they’re full, the lids are popped back on. This way, it’ll stay dry, and no insects can crawl inside. Before leaving for a trip, a can or two is placed in back of the truck.

Eventually filling up garbage can number three, and having no more pallets to harvest, I couldn’t help but culminate the job by saying out loud, as Ralph Gorder would do, “Now we’re cookin’ with Skelgas!”

I’ll make sure to pass Ralph’s catchy phrase on to my grandchildren for posterity’s sake.

SHOOTING UP?

“People have told me that they, too, are using the same medicine, with almost all of them having diabetes.”

My doctor just prescribed one of those A1C-lowering injection drugs because my blood sugar has remained above recommended levels. It’s been inching up over the past 10 years.

He says I’m knocking on the door to diabetes if not already there. The drug I’m taking is also popular with people trying to lower their weight, and begins with O, almost sounding like Olympic, but is spelled Ozempic.

Ozempic is the brand name for semaglutide, a prescription medication used to help manage blood sugar levels in adults with type 2 diabetes. It belongs to a class of drugs called GLP-1 receptor agonists, which work by stimulating insulin secretion and lowering glucose production by the liver.

In addition to blood sugar control, Ozempic may also help some individuals lose weight. The medication is typically administered as a once-weekly injection under the skin, most often in the abdomen, thigh, or upper arm

Each week, I have my wife do the injecting because I don’t like poking myself with anything, especially a needle. The needle in this case is so tiny that I don’t feel it, with the location changing from the left side of the stomach to the right side every other injection.

When I told a friend what I was going through, he jokingly remarked, “So you’ve started shooting up.” I’m familiar with that term, having read about druggies doing such, but I never thought of it in the same sense as me. Self-administer sounds much better.

Years ago, in Anchorage, a friend wanted me to go with him to a log cabin sitting behind a popular tavern in Spenard called Chilkoot Charlies. He was told that someone was in that old cabin who owed him money, and Gary was attempting to collect.

We knocked, got no answer, and then walked in to see at least six young people lying on blankets and sleeping bags, some asleep and others too dopey to talk. One guy was in a kitchen chair, giving himself an injection in the arm. He had a rubber band wrapped around his bicep. I’d never witnessed anything like it—immediately wanting to turn around and leave.

The fellow we were looking for wasn’t there, and it’s probably good he wasn’t. That bizarre scene has never left my mind. I suppose it’s still played out throughout the country, although back then, this was heroin they were injecting, while smoking ‘crack’ seems to be the chosen drug amongst addicts these days.

Deciding to look up the term, ‘shooting up’ refers to the act of injecting drugs directly into the bloodstream using a needle and syringe. This method is commonly associated with substances such as heroin, methamphetamine, or other injectable drugs.

Injecting drugs this way leads to rapid effects because the substance quickly enters the circulatory system, but it also carries significant health risks, including infections, overdose, and the transmission of bloodborne diseases.

Thankfully, this A1C-lowering drug pen delivers only a small amount of medicine beneath the skin and does not inject it directly into a vein. I’d never go through with a dose if it were. Unlike my wife, I have a hard time going into a phlebotomy clinic to give blood; unfortunately, my doctor requires it at least twice a year.

I’m not sure how long I’ll be on Ozempic, but hopefully it isn’t long. It’s kept in the refrigerator as recommended, and I’m reminded that injection time is mere days away each time the fridge door opens.

People have told me that they, too, are using the same medicine, with almost all of them having diabetes. That’s a disease I want to avoid like the plague—and if “shooting up” works, as Tom jokingly called it, I’ll be more than grateful.

Olá

“The children seem to enjoy my reading, but are more thrilled when Jess the parrot makes an appearance.”

I bump into more Spanish-speaking people in Arizona than I did in Alaska or Alabama. Texas was a totally different story. Not learning the language is something I always regret.

Oh, I tried in 5th grade, but never could master anything beyond simple greetings, such as “Buenos días” and “Gracias”. For some strange reason, I always remembered, “En la bibliotheca.” That means, “In the library.”

My teacher had a meeting with Mom to try to figure out how to help me improve. That consisted of using a tape recorder at home and listening to Spanish drills before going to bed. All that constant talking put me fast to sleep, and ultimately I flunked the course.

My grandchildren have attended Spanish immersion classes in Minnesota, and they’re doing quite well. Each winter, while school is in session, I’ve appeared on a live telecast from one of their classrooms, where I read a favorite book of theirs, then they ask questions. I try to add a few Spanish words to my presentation, but my vocabulary is limited. Olá is a recent addition, meaning ‘hello’.

The children seem to enjoy my reading, but are more thrilled when Jess the parrot makes an appearance. Decker, Reece, and Mykah’s Spanish instructor says that the kids talk more about Jess and his ability to mimic words than anything else. They believe he’s actually chatting with them.

“Aloha” is one of the words he especially likes, along with pretty bird, tired bird, bad bird, want to go nighty night, want some, what, okay, and several others. If there’s one Spanish word I’d like him to pick up, it’s olá, although he now says hello with perfection.

I’m trying to learn more words to help me in the podcast, if you can call it that. I’d especially like to understand Spanish conversations going on in my presence, wanting to eavesdrop. The two words I especially listen for, as young people look at me while talking, are Viejo chocho, meaning old fart.

If parrots are able to easily mimic words and sounds, why didn’t the tape recorder trick work for me so many years ago? Perhaps it would now, as long as I turn up the volume.

Evelyn Woodhead offers a speed-reading class, or at least Cheech & Chong claims they do. I learned that listening to one of their 8-track tapes back in the 70s. There must be a similar course in Spanish.

My goal here is not so much to speak fluent Spanish as I’m way too far down life’s trail for that. If I can just stumble my way through simple conversations with the grandkids, I’d be thrilled. If they see I’m trying, I’m sure they’ll empathize with grandpa’s attempt.

Should they not, as long as I don’t hear Viejo chocho jokingly whispered behind my back as I walk away, I’ll be just fine.